Ego Te Absolvo
by imskysmom
Summary: Carson Beckett is struggling with some ethical dilemmas, and John Sheppard just makes the issues more complicated. Angst, HC, whumpage, and a bit of alcohol imbibing...COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Carson Beckett was trying to remember the color of the curtains his mum had put in the kitchen. He thought they were blue with pink flowers, or were those the curtains in the guest bath?

_Breathe in, breathe out_.

McCartney, that was his name. He hadn't met the new dentist that had arrived last week on the Daedalus, but he could remember the man's name.

_Breathe in, breathe out_.

Beckett closed his eyes though that only seemed to magnify the sound. His mum had mentioned Father Andrew's lumbago in the last letter from home. He couldn't believe the old priest was still alive.

_Breathe in, breathe out_.

He was curled up in a corner of the hut, leaning his head against a thin, rough wall. On the other side, he could hear Sheppard, but it was so dark. All he could see was dapples of light.. He felt the splinters pricking his scalp, catching on the fabric of his shirt where his shoulders rested against the flimsy wood. It was sticky-hot and he could smell the reek of his own, unwashed body, rank with fear sweat and pain, but he wasn't sweating anymore. The heat stroke had seen to that. Through the cracks, he could see nothing, though he imagined watching the fabric rising and falling on the colonel's chest and found himself breathing in time with the gasps.

He most certainly needed to up the supply request for the allergy kits; God only knew what Rodney did with all of them; he'd be dead if he had as many allergy attacks as he claimed.

_Breathe_…there was the tiniest whisper of a groan as the rasping breath caught and Beckett jerked stiffly upright until it evened out once more.

It had all seemed so simple. One of the teams had reported back that the indigenous people of P3S-752 had a medical technique for treating asthma and breathing disorders that Beckett might find interesting. The villagers, Clan as they called themselves, had been excessively culled and were on the edge of starvation. It had seemed like a chance to help out; simple, uncomplicated assistance, aid and research... Things were never simple here. Sighing, Beckett leaned close to the small crack and called.

"Colonel."

There was no response. The wood scratched his jaw as he pressed his face against the panel, trying to see through the crack into the dim space on the other side.

"John." The breathing hitched unevenly, then resumed. "I'm goin' ta do it, Colonel. There's no point in holdin' out and lettin' this continue." He closed his mind to the images conjured up by just saying the words. Beckett raised up on his knees, both hands now on the wall, the floor of the hut slick with mud from the rainy season. There was a stillness on the other side. "John," he repeated urgently. "Can ye hear me, lad?"

"Y'cant… do't." Sheppard's voice was barely recognizable, the words slurred. "Th'll …come."

Beckett closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the rough splintery wood. "John." He'd learned the hard way not to try to get to Sheppard, no matter how inviting the feeble panel was. His attempt had earned the colonel several broken ribs. After that he hadn't tried again. He ran his fingers over his face, ignoring the stubble from his beard and the gumminess of sweat, tracing the bones and trying to remember from the quick glance he'd gotten at the colonel, if his cheekbone could be broken. He knew he hadn't gotten enough water to compensate for the amount he'd sweated out, and he knew the colonel's treatment had been much worse.

Two large-bore IV's with fluids running wide open; oh God, but he had to be severely dehydrated. Don't think there's any internal bleeding, but best to have a unit or two of O-neg blood ready just in case. Get the poor man some analgesics before trying to put his shoulder back in joint; his shoulders no doubt hurt like a bugger. Even if there was a concussion they could intubate if needed..

Beckett's mind spun on, trying unsuccessfully to ignore his own rank smell, he continued to silently recite what his instructions to his staff would be as soon as they got back to Atlantis. Then, some semblance of calm restored, he tried again, chills from the heatstroke making his voice shake.

"Lad, they're goin' to kill ye if I don't do this." His hands twitched and he rubbed his palms on his thighs. The material was filthy, damp with old perspiration and his hands came away clammy and cold. "John," he tried again. He swallowed, tasting blood in his own mouth. "The child will be killed no matter wha' I do."

"M'not…"

_breathe in, breathe out_,

"…talkin' bout it," the words were indistinct. The thin wall between them shuddered against Beckett's hands as something scraped along the divider and the colonel groaned again. "Th'll…"

_breathe in, breathe out_,

"…come," he repeated, voice distorted even more, and to Beckett it sounded like a prayer.


	2. Chapter 2

The bright sunlight started tears in Beckett's eyes as the door was shoved open. Holding a hand up to shade them, he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his vision. On the other side of the hut, he heard Sheppard's door swinging open as well, and then rough impersonal hands were on his arms, dragging him onto unsteady feet, out of the sticky dark and into the humid light. The skin on his wrists burned as he twisted in their hands, fighting to catch a glimpse of the colonel. He hung unmoving between two of the guards. For a moment, Beckett couldn't hear through the buzzing in his ears. Frantically, he started struggling to get to him.

"Ye've got to let me help him!" he shouted, turning from face to blank face. "Please! We've done nothin' to ye!"

"We would be happy to allow you to help him. All you must do is help us, as we have asked you so many times before." Beckett stilled at the sound of the voice, and licked his dry lips before he turned to face the speaker. The chieftain of the clan, Kritan, stood before him. "His blood is on your hands," he continued, face impassive.

"Dinna give me that load of crap," Beckett spat. "Ye and your gormless fools are the ones doin' this, no' me."

Kritan just shrugged. "Until you agree to share in the ritual, we must do what we can to persuade you."

"Ritual," snorted Beckett. "Murder is wha' ye're talkin' about, man!" he snapped. Then taking a deep breath, tried once more to reason with the native. "Why will ye no' let us help ye? This is unnecessary. We have," and unconsciously his hands shaped instruments he didn't have, "we have magic that will make the crops grow faster, better. We sent our friends to bring back food and other supplies. Ye dinna need to sacrifice your children." The circle of villagers around him was silent and for a split second, Beckett thought he might have broken through, then the chieftain was shaking his head heavily, frowning.

"We do not want your magic. We have our own ways that have served us well for many years." With revulsed dismay, Beckett realized Kritan was genuinely disappointed and confused that the Atlanteans refused to participate in the ritual sacrifice.

"We mean no disrespect," he said hurriedly. "But we have our own ways, and they dinna include killing children." As soon as the words left his lips, Beckett closed his eyes, cursing his feckless brain, a flush burning its way up his face to the very tips of his ears. Even McKay couldn't have found a more offensive or insolent thing to say. The chieftain's eyes flared with anger.

"You 'mean no disrespect,'" he repeated slowly after Beckett, his face hardening "and yet you behave as though our ritual were a mere sport killing. What else is it to speak so of our young, our bravest, who go to the gods to speak for us? How can you respect what you reject? If we send your Sheppard to speak to the gods, would you respect him in his mission? No!" and he made a sharp downward motion with his hand. "You show by your very words you have no understanding, no reverence for our traditions. You mock our invitation to share your spirit power with us. But one way or another, whether through the ritual, or because we spill this man's heart blood, we will have it," and he gestured to the men holding Sheppard.

They dragged the colonel back toward the upright pole in the center of the village, and slipped the loops over the ends of the stick thrust behind his arms. Still unable to stand, all of Sheppard's weight came down on his shoulders, wrenching them back even further, and the half-strangled cry of pain had Beckett lunging again away from his captors.

This time they weren't so careful with the doctor, and a hard fist to his midriff had him doubled over, struggling for air. Another blow brought the bright taste of his own blood, and after a moment, he stopped struggling. Sheppard had mastered the pain, for the moment anyway, and lifted his head to meet Beckett's eyes. The physician swallowed hard against the rage and bile in his throat. Turning to meet Krinat's eyes, he clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth would crack.

"I ask you one last time. Accept this knife and share your spirit with us by blessing our ritual." On the man's outstretched palms lay a long wicked blade, hafted in bone and bound with strips of rawhide leather. The bone and leather alike were stained a reddish muddy brown, and there was no question in Beckett's mind what the discoloration was from. "Either that," continued Krinat, "or the next blood this blade drinks will be his."

Beckett glanced around at the circle of villagers. There was no malice on their faces but the threat was unmistakable. He looked over at the high stone altar that had a place of honor in front of the temple, largest building in the village. There was a woman standing beside it; a child, wrapped in white linen-like cloth, clutched in her arms. The woman's eyes held him and he realized with a shock like a physical blow she was proud of the honor being bestowed on her and her child. Horror washed through him and he swayed on his feet. The child began wailing, a thin sound that carried clearly through the silent gathering. Taking one last look at the half-conscious man dangling from the restraints, Beckett felt his hands shaking.

Gunshots rang out as a P-90 was discharged into the air over the crowd's head. It was the sound he'd been praying to hear, but it still took Beckett a moment to understand. Then he snatched the knife out of the hands of the stunned chieftain, and tearing loose from the hands of his guards, ran straight for Sheppard. With a curious abstraction, Beckett found himself noticing the dust on the ground beneath Sheppard was pocked with small round dark circles where drips of blood had flipped away as the colonel writhed in pain.

Around him it was total chaos as the villagers ran screaming and gunshots continued to ring out, adding to the confusion. Unwilling to cause Sheppard any more pain, and yet desperate to cut him down, Beckett was grateful to find McKay at his shoulder. The Canadian was pale but braced himself under Sheppard's arm and nodded grimly to Beckett. He caught around the colonel around the waist as he collapsed, and Beckett swiftly sliced through the remaining bonds. With a fierce distaste, Beckett eased the rough pole from between Sheppard's elbows. The half-conscious man moaned in agony as blood-starved muscles and tissues began their painful return back to life. Now Teyla was also beside them.

"He is not going to be able to walk," she said tersely. McKay didn't bother to respond. Stooping down and muttering about slipped discs, he yanked the colonel's limp form over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and started staggering in the direction of the gate. Watching, Beckett grimaced for Sheppard. Even unconscious, he moaned at the rough treatment, but better that than dead.

The clan woman stood watching, unmoving through the bedlam. Beckett could see the baby's mouth open in a wail, but couldn't hear the child over all the other noise. He found himself moving toward them and suddenly Teyla was there, catching at his arm. She pulled him around and after McKay, who was weaving a little under Sheppard's weight. Beckett dug in his heels and looked down at Teyla, shaking his head. "We need to bring them, too," he said, pointing to the woman.

Teyla shot him a confused look. He had to make her understand. He looked up around the crowd, eyes finally fixing on the building. He couldn't see the altar through the melee. He looked back at Teyla, pitching his voice to be heard over the din. "The pair of them is what this was all about," and he waved an arm wildly in the clanswoman's direction. The Athosian woman still looked unsure but ran to the clanswoman and spoke to her softly. The woman shook her head without ever taking her eyes from Beckett, and Teyla spoke more urgently. After a moment, though, she allowed Teyla to swiftly lead her away from the others.

Two Marines closed in behind them and another grabbed Beckett, and shoved him toward the gate as the villagers, realizing that no one was actually being hurt by the noise, started moving meaningfully toward the physician. A spray of bullets tore up the ground causing dust to billow around the mob as they started back in anger and fright.

Through the haze and the shouts, Beckett felt Krinat's eyes on him. Once again he felt himself shaken by the level of confused betrayal in the clan chieftain's expression, and then he was stumbling toward the gate, gladder than he'd ever expected to be to step into the shimmering aqua surface and emerge chilled and breathless into the gateroom of Atlantis.

He saw his medical team already working on Colonel Sheppard, McKay hovering uneasily just outside the circle of medics. He had taken two steps in that direction himself when he was stopped by Dr. Weir.

"Carson, are you all right?" Her grey eyes were filled with a warm concern.

"Aye, lass," he responded automatically, his eyes beyond her to where an IV was being inserted into Sheppard's arm even before they moved him to the infirmary. "Mind his ribs," Beckett called over her shoulder. "He was handled very roughly. Ye'll need X-rays before the MRI. An' he's very dehydrated, better get some fluids runnin' into him, stat."

"Carson," and Weir tilted her head, filling his line of vision and forcing his attention back to her face. "Trust your people to do their job."

Beckett drew a long shaky breath and tried to speak. It was clear though, from the confusion on Weir's face she couldn't understand him. He tried again, more slowly. "My fault," he muttered tonelessly and a wave of dizziness passed through him. The trivial thought refused to go away, and then it was more than a thought. It was a reality and the floor was coming up fast and he mentally sighed as he felt the darkness take him. He'd have to stop teasing Rodney now about fainting, what a shame.


	3. Chapter 3

Beckett woke with a start at the sound of a door opening. For a moment he was back in the dark, stifling hut, waiting with sick dread for the next round of coercion. Then he felt the cool of cotton sheets under his skin and opened his eyes to see his own familiar infirmary and Sarah, one of his nurses, just closing the door of the supply closet. She smiled to see his eyes open and called to Dr. Weir softly.

Weir and McKay turned away from another bed to look at him. He saw Sheppard lying there, a white bandage wrapped around his temples. He smiled a little. They hadn't had to shave the Colonel's hair. A butterfly dressing now kept the gash over his eye closed, and there were stray bits of white visible on his face and arms. He was asleep, or so it appeared, and as Beckett watched, Sarah changed out the near empty bag of fluids for a new one. He noticed he had one of his own as well.

"Carson, are you feeling a little better?" Weir asked, laying a hand on the bedrails. He looked longingly at the pitcher of water and McKay poured a glass, holding it out. Beckett took it, grateful his hands weren't shaking too much. It was hard when he really wanted to grab the pitcher and down it, but he knew better than anyone what the result of that would be, so he just sipped.

"Had yourself quite the adventure…" continued Dr. Weir.

"How is Colonel Sheppard?" he croaked, ignoring her comment.

"Dr. Schwartz says he'll be fine once he's had a little time to rest up and heal."

McKay knew him well enough, though, and snagged Sheppard's chart for him. Glancing through, he rattled off a few of the highlights before Beckett could snatch the chart from his hands.

"Mild concussion, three cracked ribs, multiple contusions, abrasions and grazes, dehydration, right shoulder wrench, left shoulder dislocated and a couple of broken fingers." Beckett flapped a hand at him distractedly as he rapidly scanned the chart.

"Carson," Weir repeated, her tone gently insistent. "How are you feeling? Dr. Schwartz has said Colonel Sheppard will be fine."

Shame roiled up in Beckett's throat and he looked away from them. "This is all my fault." Weir looked at him, her negotiator's poker face firmly in place.

"You said that before, Carson. What do you mean?"

"Yes, what are you going on about, Carson?" McKay sounded irritated, but one look at the scientist's weary face and Beckett knew it covered a days deep worry. Weir, however, shot McKay a warning glance before continuing.

"Who is the woman and child? Teyla said you requested we bring them back to Atlantis." Beckett's eyes flew back to Weir's face.

"I'd forgotten all about them," he said. "How are they?"

"Who are they?" McKay said, ignoring another glare from Weir.

"I wouldn't sacrifice the child," said Beckett, his voice faint. "Tha's why they were torturing the colonel. If ye hadna shown up when ye did…" his voice trailed off awkwardly. McKay and Weir exchanged a look over Beckett's bed.

"Yes, well," said McKay, speaking a little too loudly and clapping his hands together. "Alls well that ends well, right? I'll be needed back at the lab, and now that you're awake I'm sure you and Elizabeth have things to discuss. I'll be back later. For dinner." Weir watched his hasty departure with one raised eyebrow, and turned back to Beckett, a faintly amused expression on her face.

"Rodney looked as though he expected…," she paused, smiling a little. "Well, I'm not sure what he expected." She settled in comfortably beside him. "We do have things to discuss, but not until you're ready, Carson."

Beckett took a long shuddering breath. He wasn't sure he ever would be.


	4. Chapter 4

Beckett was grateful to Elizabeth. She'd stayed and made small talk with him for several more minutes, talking about the latest arrivals on the Daedalus and other meaningless talk and then had excused herself with a warm squeeze to his shoulder.

Steven Schwartz had been kind enough to release him from bed rest, especially after Beckett had acerbically noted that since he worked in the bloody infirmary, he wasn't likely to collapse without someone noting. Beckett had noticed though, he was being closely, if subtlely, watched for any signs of overexertion and had taken care not to over do. It wasn't hard; the heat stroke made even shuffling from his chair to Sheppard's bed an exhausting proposition.

Now he sat in his office, absently checking over the supplies in his pack. The clan had stripped them of everything but their BDU's and he'd had to make up a whole new pack.

"Sure you've got enough bandages in there, Carson?" Beckett started guiltily and then glanced down into the open bag. It was almost overflowing with dozens of packets of bandages. He glanced back up at Sheppard who stood lounging in the doorway, one sardonic eyebrow raised.

"Colonel, you shouldna be out of bed yet."

Sheppard started to shrug, and then with a grimace, stopped. Beckett heaved an exasperated sigh and gestured him in. "At least come in and sit down."

Moving stiffly, Sheppard sat down gingerly before easing back into the seat. "I needed to move," he explained, looking a little frustrated.

"I know, lad," said Beckett. He started to go on, but stopped himself and focused instead on emptying out the extra bandages.

"So, looks like you're back on your feet."

"There are a few advantages to being the CMO, despite my staff's best efforts to foil them," and he shot a dirty look out the window at where two of his nurses were folding linens while rather pointedly keeping an eye on him.

Sheppard chuckled. "They're just not used to seeing you beat up. Wait til I get you out on a few more missions. They'll get as used to seeing you in here as a patient as me and Rodney."

Beckett's attention focused suddenly on Sheppard. "What?"

"I just was thinking it would probably be a good idea for you to go through the gate a little more often. There's a lot more to the Pegasus Galaxy than this infirmary." He leaned back in the chair a little too nonchalantly. Beckett's eyes narrowed.

"Aye, and I see it all from the comfort of a jumper when I visit the mainland every week to check on the Athosians."

"Carson, you know what I mean. There is no feeling like stepping onto a world you've never seen before."

Beckett gave him a skeptical look. "I'll leave tha' to ye to enjoy, then. I'm perfectly content here."

"C'mon, Carson. It'd be good for you."

"Why are ye so eager to get me through that cosmic blender again?" and he glared at Sheppard.

"It didn't exactly go smoothly out there," said Sheppard, holding his hands up defensively, "and it seemed like it would be a good idea to, well, you know, get back up on the horse."

"You know sod all, Colonel!" and he began cramming handfuls of bandages back into the open bin, white-knuckled. Sheppard watched in silence for a moment.

"Carson, why are you so upset?"

Beckett didn't respond, just kept emptying out the pack.

"Carson, come on. Talk to me."

"Don't patronize me, Colonel," Beckett snapped.

"I'm not," replied Sheppard, "but this is obviously really bugging you. I think you'd feel better if you talked about it. Maybe to Heightmeyer?"

Beckett felt an eyebrow shoot upwards. "Aren't ye just full of the helpful suggestions today?"

Sheppard blinked, disconcerted and shifted a little in the hard plastic seat. "Or not. Look, I don't care who you talk to, but it's obvious you're upset."

"An' I can't imagine what there is ta be upset about," he said, lip curled. "I just allowed a friend to be tortured for days while I stood by and did nothin'."

Massaging the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed, Sheppard spoke again, obviously frustrated. "I don't…, Carson, what the hell is going on with you? We're back, we're safe. You even managed to snag the kid! So what is eating you?" With an effort, he stopped and spoke more calmly. "I just am trying to understand."

"Not much ta understand," said Beckett, his hands stilling, the fingers smoothing and straightening the package of bandages. The plastic was slick, and crackled under his fingertips.

"I'm sorry you were in that position, Carson." The colonel spoke softly.

Beckett sprang to his feet, sweat prickling between his shoulder blades as he paced around the small space.

"Ye're apologizin' te me?" and he twisted his shoulders violently inside the confines of the cotton lab coat he wore, trying to ease the itch. The movement reminded him of Sheppard's arms bound behind his back and he stopped. "I should be apologizin' te ye, lad. It's my fault ye're in this state," he said without turning to face the other man.

"Bullshit," Sheppard said easily. So easily that at first Beckett didn't notice. Then he turned around to gape at Sheppard.

"Ye don't understand," he said again. "I was goin' to do it, d'ya see? I was goin' to kill that child." He watched Sheppard like a hawk, but he didn't see disgust or anger. Just disbelief.

"Oh come on, Carson. You?" Sheppard quirked an eyebrow and grinned. "Not buying it."

Beckett could hear the barely suppressed laugh and felt himself beginning to stiffen. He advanced on Sheppard a step.

"Did you think they were goin' ta just give up? Just let us go once they saw we really wouldn't kill the child?"

"No, of course not. I just know you wouldn't have done it. It's just not who you are." He snorted and leaned back carefully in the chair. "You can't kill a kid! I mean, you? That's not you. It'd be like McKay giving up coffee. Or kissing Kavanagh." He shuddered and made a face.

"Is that all this is ta you, just a bluidy joke? An' me? Am I a joke as well? I'm some poncy fool, who shoots off drones at your helicopter and can't fly your wonderful Puddlejumpers?" Beckett's throat was tight and he was breathing heavily. He looked up to see Sheppard mouthing, 'poncy,' and looking like a deer in the headlights. For some reason, that just made him angrier. "It's a wonder ye allow such a right feckless git off world! I might end up shootin' my foot off. Ye bluidy fool! In the end I would have done it if for no other reason than ta give the child a merciful death! D'ye no' know ye would have both been killed if I hadna?" he demanded furiously. "You AND the child. It would probably have been a kindness gi'en the depths of poverty on that world. Better an easy death at my hand than slow starvation or taken in a culling."

Beckett stepped back, hands fisted. He was shaking, he could feel it, and hated it. Bit down on the inside of his cheek and breathed in and out. Sheppard was watching him, wide-eyed, mouth open. He snapped his mouth shut, jaw firmed in an expression of textbook sympathy and thoughtfulness and Beckett damn near hit him right there and then. "Excuse me, Colonel," he ground out.

"Carson, I think we need to talk about this . . ."

"I think you need to let the nurse examine you," snapped Beckett, taking another step back. "And I need a breath of fresh air." He spun on one heel and stalked away. Behind him he heard Sheppard call, ignored it. "Katie?" He beckoned, and the nurse looked at him, open-mouthed, then nodded and said "yes doctor!" and headed determinedly towards Sheppard. And Beckett stormed out, half wishing you could slam open Atlantis doors like he could in the old wards he worked in.


	5. Chapter 5

oOo

He looked up just in time to just miss plowing into Dr. Biro coming out of the mess hall with a brimming cup of coffee. She shrieked a little in surprise and he muttered an apology. Usually he would have stopped and made small talk with one of his staff, but he could still feel the anger fizzing and snapping around him like an electrical current.

Grateful no one else seemed intent on speaking to him, he grabbed a mug from the neatly arranged pyramid and managed to knock three more off onto the table where they rolled and clanked. He took a deep breath and ignoring the scattered mugs, banged his own against the metal spout. The clatter of porcelain against metal set his teeth on edge. He snatched several sugar packets, ripping them open and trying not to picture cramming them into Sheppard's mouth to shut him up. Fine white grains showered the table, but he ignored them as he dumped everything into the cup and tossed the crumpled packets onto the table. Several other expedition members were in the cafeteria, and he glared at them. They were carefully avoiding his eyes, though he caught one or two looking away too quickly. He sighed, leaning forward to rest his forehead in his hands. He didn't like being angry.

"Look at the little corpses strewn around. If we could just set you loose on the wraith…" and McKay plopped down a heaping tray beside Beckett, who just glared at him.

"That's a pretty good glare o' death. Almost as good as mine, but if you REALLY want to look mean, Carson, you'll have to overcome your innate sheep-romancing niceness."

"I'm not in the mood for this right now, Rodney, so why don't ye take your trough and go sit at another table."

McKay paused, Danish halfway to his mouth and dripping filling. "You must be joking. I think this is the only time I could sit with you and NOT have you criticize my diet."

"Quite honestly, Rodney, at the moment I wouldna care if ye used arsenic for powdered sugar on your doughnut."

McKay wolfed down another bite, then gently poked a muffin over towards Carson. "Here. It takes fuel to stay that pissed off." He leaned back, looked around, and spotting one of the lab techs from his department, gestured her over. Grabbing a lapel, McKay yanked the girl down and muttered something in her ear. She looked baffled. He looked annoyed, muttered a little more and then she nodded in understanding and raced off. He turned back to Beckett. "Sheppard, right? He's the only one who could piss me off that bad."

His hands were still shaking and Beckett casually swept the spilled sugar onto the floor to hide it. "Aye, we had a bit of a row," and clamping his hands around the mug, Beckett took a long drink without meeting McKay's eyes.

McKay smirked. "Thought so. I'm always right."

Beckett nearly snorted the tea out his nose. "Hardly. Ye're always whining, ye're always complaining, but ye're NOT always right. For that matter," and Beckett felt his skin prickling again at the remembered anger, "Sheppard always thinks he's right too. Bloody pair of fools," he snapped, slamming the mug down on the table. He looked at the new puddle of tea and gritted his teeth.

"See, the difference between me and Sheppard is that, despite your attempt to remind me of humility, I'm right and he's wrong. We both know he's an asshole. It's a congenital defect. How did his disability affect you this time?"

Beckett rolled his eyes. "Oh for pity's sake, Rodney. The pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it. I mean, if I didna know better, I'd think that's what you had your doctorate in!"

McKay eyed him sideways, licked powder sugar from his lips but missed the patch on the tip of his nose. "How do you know I don't have a doctorate in it? I AM a genius."

"Oh, now it all makes sense. Major in astrophysics, minor in assholeology?" retorted Beckett. "Just shut your gaum and let me drink my tea in peace! I didna come looking to talk to anyone."

"No, you came in to slaughter harmless food packaging and spill tea all over. That'll attract ants, by the way. And you can sulk with me here too, but I need ammunition on Sheppard. Besides, if your bad attitude is likely to have a long half life I really want to know about it before my next physical. I do NOT need a homicidal sheep humper telling me to turn my head and cough."

"Good God, man, can't ye shut the bloody hell up! Just…," and Beckett got up and moved to another table, pointedly sitting with his back to McKay.

McKay moved over to beside him again. "And miss all this? Are you kidding? Seriously, he's obnoxious. I'm just trying to head off the potential massacre in reaction."

Beckett folded his arms on the table and slumped forward. "Oh for the love of God," he moaned. "Why can't ye just leave me alone, Rodney. Go eat," and he shifted to eye McKay's tray, "whatever the hell that mess is, and just leave me alone!"

McKay perused a muffin. "I knew you couldn't resist commenting on my meal." He hovered a hand then snatched up the sandwich that actually had protein and pushed the muffin back over, shooting a surprisingly sympathetic look at Carson. "Though I must say, the Colonel appears to have outdone himself this time. If it helps, I can lure him into a highly uncomfortable encounter with what might be an Ancient nose hair trimmer." Rodney sighed. "Though knowing you, you'll probably be a pacifist who believes that reform can only occur through gentle persuasion. You should take my word for it. The Colonel's like a bad puppy. You need physical force. I was always a cat man myself, but I understand how to reinforce conditioning. Same thing works with lab techs."

Beckett hesitated for a moment, then picked up the muffin and began systematically to disintegrate it. "It's not like ye're setting the world on fire with your people skills, Rodney," he mumbled, "so ye'll understand if I don't adopt your techniques."

McKay snorted. "There's a difference between the world and the Colonel. But okay, if spilling tea and abusing food products works for you . . . though myself, this concerns me. I do take an interest when key personnel on whom my health and comfort rely are affected."

Beckett scowled in disgust. "And God forbid your comfort might be affected. Besides, it's not like there isn't an infirmary full of medical personnel to cater to your every whim and imagined symptom."

"Of course, I do realize that it can be difficult to communicate. He's military. You, for all your reliance on pseudo-science, are a fairly competent practitioner of something like science. The culture gap is huge. I can offer my services as a translator . . . I've noted that the anthropologists don't have the right range of grunts and crotch scratching to convey military concepts. But really - " McKay eyed him again. "Just sucking up caffeine and sugar and abusing inanimate objects usually isn't quite enough. Sheppard goes and lets Teyla hurt him when he gets pissed. Myself, I prefer a more effective and less masochistic method. In the spirit of friendship, therefore, I am here to offer you my services as a teacher and listening ear."

"'As teacher,'" Beckett echoed, slightly incredulous. "Aye, and ye've had such a rewarding relationship with the colonel. I personally like to think of when he left ye hanging in the tree as a shining example of how well YE communicate with him."

McKay looked up, took a well-wrinkled brown paper lunch sack from the tech who'd come back in, and looked Beckett in the eye. "At least I could tell him to his face that I was pissed off, Carson. How about you?"

"Mind your own bluidy business, McKay," Carson retorted. His hands started shaking again and he scrubbed viciously at the stubble on his jaw line where his skin was prickling.

McKay was eyeing him. "Huh. You sound like Scotty when you get really wound up. Between you doing Scotty and the colonel's Captain Kirk, we've almost got a cast reunion! Now we just need to see if we can get Biro to do Spock." McKay looked down at his tray, then sighed and dropped his sandwich. "Carson, in case you haven't noticed, you are my business. Everybody on Atlantis is my business, same way all of us are your business." He looked up. "So what happened?"

"Have I told you that you're an asshole, Rodney? Ass-hole. It's a medical term."

McKay smiled widely. "Thank you! So kind of you to notice! I work hard at my craft."

"Oh, God. I may have to become Buddhist. God couldn't possibly be cruel enough to be visiting you on me as a trial, so you must be revenge for a dissolute past life. You and the colonel."

"Yeah, the colonel." McKay's smile faded. He poked at his meal again. "You were talking about responsibility, weren't you, Carson?"

Beckett shrugged, felt heat passing up into his face. It was foolish to be so angry, just because the colonel didn't understand, or because he did understand, and still didn't care. He didn't want to talk to Rodney about this. Didn't want to talk about it at all. And like a drench of cold water, he realized he was ashamed.

McKay wasn't watching him. He had opened the paper bag the tech had brought, and was chortling as he pulled out a bottle. "Oh yeah, Radek, you are good."

He wrenched the bottle open and leaned over to pour a generous tot in Beckett's tea. "Here. The shrinks are full of shit when they say this stuff doesn't help."

Beckett opened, then closed his mouth. Looked at the mug and took a long pull. It was hot and bitter and after he swallowed, he could feel the heat spreading out through his body. The taste on his tongue was smoky and reminded him of home. He took another long drink, burning his mouth and welcoming the pain.

McKay smiled, a tiny quirk of the corner of his mouth and poked at the wreckage on his tray. When he spoke, his voice was warm, more sympathetic than Carson could believe. "I always hated feeling like that myself. So pissed off if felt like I was choking on my own guts but I had to keep quiet because it's not like it mattered, not like anyone cared." McKay glanced up and then away. "I don't think it always has to be that way, Carson, that dog-eat-dog rationale for brute force. Whatever pissed you off does matter."

Beckett shook his head, gut burning. "This isna' some stupid schoolboy fight, Rodney. I don't know what the hell you think yer talking about, and neither do you. Just back away now." He glowered at McKay. "I know ye're tryin' to help, but ye can't understand wha' this is about!" He downed the rest of his tea and wished McKay would just go away. The rattle of his silverware as he shoveled in his food was like sandpaper on Beckett's nerves.

"Oh please," scoffed McKay. "Stop being such a drama queen!" Beckett stared at him and started to speak, but McKay raised a finger. "Just . . just . . WAIT. Look, Carson. This is Atlantis. We have soul sucking vampires and shit-faced Nazi-wannabes. I don't know what you and Sheppard got into but what do you expect him to do? Cause if it's sit and have a nice little chat and a cry, you better start going out with Cadman instead. No, wait, scratch that. She wouldn't do that either. Look, just TELL me what you want and I'll tell you why they can't and translate it for you, okay?" He tipped the bottle and dumped another healthy portion into Beckett's empty mug before Beckett could move it away.

"Rodney, would you shut the HELL up? You THINK you understand but you have not got a fooking CLUE. You don't have a clue and the Colonel doesn't want to see the clue he's got and I am PISSED OFF."

McKay huffed. "Fine. Stew in your own juices if you like, Carson. But remember the offer stands if you decide you'd like to know what is actually going on in that pointy little head of Sheppard's."

Another full tray thumped down next to them and Beckett startled. It was Ronon Dex, McKay's gastronomic soul mate. He looked at the sandwich McKay had dropped on his tray.

"You gonna eat that?"

McKay snatched it up and crammed half into his mouth, glaring at the big man who just shrugged and dug into his own plateful of leftovers.

"What's that?" and he inclined his head toward the bottle by McKay's plate.

"Moonshine," answered McKay. "Liquor," he continued at Dex's questioning look.

"Really?"

McKay looked a little startled at the enthusiastic tone. "From that response I'm assuming you would like to try some?" Ronon just emptied his mug and held it out to McKay. The Canadian filled it and sloshed a little more into Beckett's for good measure.

Ronon sniffed the contents before drinking and McKay snapped, "What is it with you sniffing everything? It's like having a German Shepherd around!"

Ronon just stared at him over the rim of his cup and then held it out again to be refilled. McKay rolled his eyes but filled it up again. Beckett could feel himself relaxing. His face didn't feel stiff with anger anymore and he tossed back the liquor, holding his own cup out for a refill. McKay poured the last of the bottle out, shaking the drops from the neck.

"Nothing gold can stay," he said obliquely and Beckett glanced at him, surprised.

"Poetry, Rodney?"

McKay shrugged. "I needed a few credits in the touchy feelies. That's the last of the booze, either way." Ronon downed his again and spoke up unexpectedly.

"I have some. In my quarters." They both regarded him with astonishment. "What?" he asked. McKay looked at Beckett and seemed to make a quick decision.

"Let's go," he said, grabbing Beckett by the arm and hoisting him to his feet. The room spun around Beckett for a moment but he had the pride of Scotland riding on his shoulders and straightened quickly. He grinned at Ronon.

"Lead on, MacDuff." Quirking an eyebrow, Ronon picked up his tray and they followed him.

"It's 'lay on, MacDuff,'" corrected McKay as they went. "Try to have a little national pride, Carson."

"What do you know, you poncy Canadian git?"

"I know you're drunk and I know my Shakespeare, Carson. Don't worry, we'll get you more soon."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Beckett gazed around the room; there was a bed, minus the covers that were in a heap in the corner, a couple uncomfortable looking chairs, and some weapons he'd never seen before. That was it. Ronon went to a hidden cupboard and opened it to reveal several bottles of varying shapes and sizes. He glanced over his shoulder at Beckett and took down the largest along with some metal cups

McKay sneered, "Metal?. Those leave an aftertaste and make your fillings ache."

"What are fillings?"

"Uh, dental work?"

Ronon stared at him blankly, then shrugged, "I used to have mugs from the commissary but the booze ate through them."

"So what are the bottles made out of?"

"Something I found on a Wraith dart."

"Rodney, shut up," said Beckett. Ronon held out a cup to him and he took it eagerly.

McKay was sitting in one chair, and then looking annoyed, moved to another. "Doesn't matter what galaxy you're in, the chairs suck," he complained and headed for the bed.

Beckett giggled. "Who're ye supposed to be? Goldilocks?" and he took a long draw on the booze and sighed, "now tha's my kind o' porridge."

McKay accepted his a little more cautiously. "What exactly is this?"

"Kemmer."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "Yes, thank you, that was extremely helpful. So what exactly is this?"

"Moonshine," Ronon said, and took a large swallow. Beckett tasted his. It reminded him of Jagermeister or ouzo with a strong taste of black licorice. He liked it, and took a longer swig. It was different from the stuff Zelenka had made, thicker, sweeter, burning on his tongue and throat. He looked across the room at the chair McKay had abandoned. The longer he looked, the further away it got, making the floor a better idea. Leaning back against the wall, he slid down. McKay took a sip and wrinkled his nose, coughing.

"This is foul!" he sputtered between gasps.

"But effective," remarked Ronon.


	7. Chapter 7

oOo

There was a strange whistling, whining sound. Carson Beckett opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. There was something too close to his face for his eyes to focus on it. Had Ronon and McKay put him in a box for a joke? Turning his head to the side, Beckett made out the lower half of McKay, stretched precariously across the two chairs, head tipped back, snoring loudly. He couldn't see all of McKay. Where the hell was he? Something else was in his line of vision. He squinted. Was that Ronon's big paw hanging down?

God. He was under the bed. And he was hung over. He was so hung over he was probably brain damaged and he'd walk around drooling for life. Or puking. God, do NOT let him puke under Ronon's bed, please! He'd give himself a lobotomy on the bed frame either before or after he choked on substances best unnamed and maybe then he'd be strangled by Ronon's dust rhinos because no way was anything that size small enough to be called a bunny.

Ooooh, god. His stomach was NOT cooperating. He groaned and rolled over, praying for the nausea to go away. PLEASE go away before his head fell off or he . . . .oh, this was not good.

The door chimed, then opened. Sheppard, or rather Sheppard's feet stood in the open doorway, taking in the scene.

"What the hell did you do now?" he asked in an incredibly loud voice. McKay didn't move but Ronon's hand twitched. Sheppard walked across the room and shook McKay's shoulder. The scientist snorted loudly and fell off the makeshift bed onto the floor.

"Ronon! C'mon, wake up!" But the colonel didn't touch Ronon. Probably a wise choice. Even half-dead of alcohol poisoning he could probably still kill with his pinky finger.

Beckett lay still, his nose burning. Oh God, he could feel the contents of his stomach flirting with his throat. McKay curled in the fetal position, covering his head with his arms and groaning. The bed frame creaked, dipping under Ronon's weight and he watched the support cross-eyed as it bowed towards his nose. Two big feet appeared beside his head and then the bed bounced back up, the feet moving unsteadily towards the bathroom.

He breathed a sigh of relief, choked on dust and started gagging. Oh, don't puke, don't PUKE! His brain was going to bleed out his ears but then he'd be dead at least, and that would be a good thing. He opened his eyes to see Sheppard crouched down beside the bed, looking concerned.

"Carson, are you ok?"

"No. I'm dyin'," he groaned and curled up on his side, praying he really was.

"You're just hung over. You'll be all right." Sheppard turned and glared at McKay where he laid on the floor, gagging. With a sigh, the colonel went over and helped him into the bathroom. Beckett tried very hard not to listen. Or smell.

In a moment, Sheppard was back. Beckett could see McKay propped up over the toilet, shoulders heaving. "All right, Carson, you're next." He grabbed Beckett's ankles and pulled. The motion rocked Beckett's rebellious stomach and he spewed uncontrollably.

"Oh crap," he moaned. "Why ….ye ………leave ………me be?" he choked out between retches. From somewhere Sheppard found a container and propping Beckett up, shoved it in front of him.

"What were you two thinking?" he demanded as Beckett puked, cursed and puked.

"Softer," muttered Ronon, one hand over his eyes and the other covering his mouth.

"Softer?" sneered Sheppard. "You know it's one thing if the two of you decide to get plastered, but taking Carson down with you?"

""Ooooh,"

_glurp_

"Carson, you can't blame me."

_Ooorf_.

"You know the effects of . .. "

_oooorgh_…

The retching noises continued and finally halted. McKay landed on the floor with a thump and moaned. "Oh, pleeeease it be over. Please tell me this isn't just a respite."

"I don't know about respites but you know you're just building up more puke, McKay," said Ronon without sympathy.

"Oh god. Oh god. This is all Carson's fault. We were being Samaritans and benevolent and HE kept drinking. And he ought to know better, practitioner of the black arts like that."

"You ready to puke again or are you going to talk some more?"

"Do I really have to choose?"

"Yes."

"I think . . I . .."

_Urrrgh_

"That's what I thought," said Ronon, smirking.

Sheppard glared over his shoulder. "Get him out of here, Ronon. I'd expect you, at least, to know better."

Ronon pushed away from the wall and flashed a surprising grin at Sheppard. "Tradition, Sheppard, to drink with the men you might die for."

Taking McKay's arm over his shoulder, Ronon walked him out of the room towards the balcony, McKay whining all the way. "C'mon, McKay. Let's go see who you can puke on."

Beckett leaned his head back against the cool wall and gulped in air. He had stopped throwing up for the moment, but it was a temporary reprieve and he knew it. Breathing heavily, he watched them go, then closed his eyes and swiped at the sweat and drool on his face with shaking hands. He felt a nudge, opened his eyes. Sheppard stood there, holding a cup of water. Beckett took it gratefully and sipped.

"Feeling a little better?"

"Wha' does it look like?" grunted Beckett, closing his eyes. "And close the bloody curtains."

"They are," came the dry response. Beckett opened his eyes a crack. The light was marginally subdued. He closed them again.

"Thanks."

Sheppard winced, wrinkled his nose. Then looked away. "I am sorry, you know."

Carson slumped back down onto Ronon's bed. He was going to have to offer to wash the sheets. He sighed.

"Aye, me too. Me too."

"You know . .. " Sheppard's voice was hesitant. It was an odd sound for him. "I do understand. I'm sorry it happened. I wish I could change things."

"I know. I wish that all the time. Believe me, there's so many things. . . ."

"Carson. you can't change them. You can only accept them. There's lots of stuff you can only accept. Like your job. My job, well, that's keeping you safe. You and Weir and Teyla and yeah, McKay, if I can keep him from building more bombs. Pretty much everybody, really."

Beckett looked up, but Sheppard was leaning against the wall, studying the floor. "That's my job, Carson. I don't get much choice. And sometimes I don't like it. But that's what I do." He looked up suddenly and his eyes were hard and sad and resigned.

"I know, lad. An' I know I made your job harder."

Sheppard was shaking his head. "You let me worry about that, Carson." He grinned. "That doesn't mean I won't kick your ass if you don't follow orders off world."

"That's all right, Colonel. Doesn't mean I won't kick your ass WHEN ye don' listen in the infirmary. And just when IS your next full physical, Colonel? Remind me?"

"Ooooh, no you don't! That rubber glove thing . . .that's just . . ."

"Sick. But you knew that already, Colonel. It IS Beckett after all. Now if we're all through with our Hallmark moment?" McKay was back and standing a little unsteadily in the doorway, Ronon looming over his shoulder.

"You should know, Rodney. What's the score, Ronon?

"McKay wins for both quantity and quality," he grinned. "He has a very fine splatter effect!"

"Oh, god. You didna need to share that." Beckett stuck his fingers in his ears. And then had to pull them out to cover his mouth. And raced for the bathroom. Faintly, he heard Ronon, "I'm gonna need new quarters."

Then Sheppard's voice again, filled with suppressed laughter. "What can I say, Ronon? You reap what you sow, man, you reap what you sow."


	8. Epilogue

He heard the crying first, the uneasy wailing of a fretful baby.

"Dr. Beckett, the woman from that planet is here, she wants to speak with you." Sarah, his nurse looked over her shoulder and fidgeted with the empty syringe in her hand. The woman pushed into the office before he said a word.

She was jogging the baby slightly in her arms but the rhythm was erratic, unsettling. Her hands clutched the cloth tightly, Beckett shot her a questioning look, then reached out to take the infant. The woman continued to rock back and forth, her eyes fastened on Beckett who was smiling down at the small bundle.

"You will send her to the gods now?" she asked after a moment, her voice small. Beckett looked up startled and he turned a questioning eye on Sarah who shrugged, looking frustrated.

"You're safe, Samara. You're both safe." Sarah turned to Beckett as the woman grew more restive. "I've tried to tell her, Doctor . . ."

"You must send her to the gods. She will be safe there; she will blessed forever!" She grabbed Beckett's arm, her fingers biting into his flesh. Beckett put his hand over hers and smiled. The woman took a breath, and hesitantly offered him a small, flickering smile of her own and quieted a little.

"Your name is Samara, m'dear?" he asked her, his eyes steady on her face. She nodded once. "And the child, your daughter?"

"Telan," and after a moment, she continued, "after my mother."

Beckett smiled warmly. "Those are lovely names, Samara. And ye have a lovely daughter." He guided her over to where some chairs were loosely grouped. He nodded to Sarah and she moved on to her duties. "She'll be a beautiful little girl some day."

"No." Samara shifted in the chair. "If there was enough food, and the Wraith were no more, then she would have been a beautiful little girl. But there is no food, and the Wraith come, and come, and come."

"It doesna have to be this way," Beckett said, feeling the frustration burning in his chest. He looked back down at the baby, trying to remain calm. "If ye just will give us some time…"

"Can you promise me that she will be safe from the Wraith? That she will never know hunger?" she demanded.

Beckett couldn't meet her eyes and tucked the soft cloth of the wrap under the baby's chin. "No."

"You were never going to perform the ritual, were you?" She stared at him with accusing eyes."The woman said you were bringing us to the city of the gods. But there are no gods here. And I have spoken with your people. The Wraith come here as well."

Beckett started to explain, to argue, but the look on her face stopped him, the unspoken words bitter in his mouth. "I just wanted to save her life."

"She goes as a sacrifice to the gods, to beg their intervention for all the clan. What right do you have to steal that away from us, from the other children to whom this will mean life?"

Beckett looked down at the face of the child who had lain quiet all this time as he had rocked her. The fringes of dark curls were just visible around the edges of the woven cap she wore, and her eyes were large and dark staring up at him. Wordlessly, he handed the child to her and stood up, jamming his hands into his pockets so that the stitches strained against his knuckles.

"We will return ye to your homeworld," he said, his throat so tight he wasn't sure how he was getting the words out. He looked over at Sarah. "I'll be getting' some tea, Sarah," and he moved out the door way, finding his way blindly to the messhall for the second time in as many days.

"Dr. Beckett," Teyla broke into a jog and caught up with him. "The woman from the planet, and the child."

"Why, Teyla?" he interrupted, stopping in the middel of the hallway and turning to face her.

Teyla lowered her eyes and heaved a sigh. "To you and to me it is wrong, Dr. Beckett. But we must allow them to live their lives."

"But that's just it," he hissed. "It's not her life! It's her death! That wee girl hasn't a choice, has she."

"Of course she does. YOu know it as well as I." Teyla's voice was sad. "Her choice is death by starvation or death by the knife. Her mother has chosen to send her daughter home to the gods."

"There are no bluidy gods!" His voice was sharp and he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"And how do you know that, Dr. Beckett?" Teyla's voice was also sharp and snapped with anger. Beckett looked up at her startled. "Who are you to decide that someone's beliefs are wrong because they are different from yours?"

"Ye can't tell me ye actually believe this tripe?"

Teyla shook her head. "It does not matter whether I do or not. But I DO respect their beliefs. And that is the difference.." Her eyes softened and she looked at him with pity. "I understand. My mother was a healer, and letting go of life to her always was wrong. But they believe it. That is what matters."

Beckett scrubbed at his face, feeling the familiar rasp of whiskers under his fingers and sighed. Then, touching his earpiece, he radioed Weir to tell her their guests would be returning home.

"You have a kind heart . . . Carson. You would save them all if you could. But you must fight the battles you can win. As must we all." Teyla's grasp was warm and firm on his arm.

Beckett looked up and stared with dry, burning eyes at the mother and child framed in the doorway of the infirmary. And he shuddered once. "But at what cost, girl? We lose so much in the fight."


End file.
